


The Art of Critique

by wendymr



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Beta-Reading, Cleverclogs sergeants, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 11:03:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4433087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymr/pseuds/wendymr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“I don’t understand it. I never had trouble writing at university.”</i> Lewis's new bagman struggles with a report for Innocent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of Critique

**Author's Note:**

  * For [divingforstones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/divingforstones/gifts), [Complicated light (ComplicatedLight)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComplicatedLight/gifts), [owlbsurfinbird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlbsurfinbird/gifts), [loves_books](https://archiveofourown.org/users/loves_books/gifts).



> For the aforementioned lovely ladies, in thanks for a truly engaging discussion on the art and trade of beta-reading.
> 
> * * *

“You scratch your head much more an’ your hair’ll fall out.”

James swivels around to stare at his boss. “If you’re just going to mock, sir...”

“Not mocking. Offering to help.” Lewis gets up and comes around to perch on the edge of James’s desk. “Would’ve offered from the start, but you were so insistent on doing it all yourself.”

James sighs. “I’m supposed to do it myself. Besides...” He gives in to the supportive look on Lewis’s face. “I don’t understand it. I never had trouble writing at university.”

“Not one of your academic essays, though, is it?”

“If you recall, sir, I’ve also written numerous reports for you. At least two a month since becoming your bagman.”

“Oh, you poor overburdened sod.” Lewis grins. “Still. Not the same as _Innocent_ asking you to write a report on improving professional development for sergeants.”

“Raises the expectation level a bit, yeah.” James drags his hand through his hair again.

Lewis leans across and takes control of James’s mouse. “Looks like you’ve got it mostly written. So what’s the problem?”

“When I write reports for you, sir, they go out under your name. I know you go through them first and change some words to make them sound a bit more like you — yes, I do know that,” James adds as Lewis raises a sceptical eyebrow. “This one will have my name on it. And it’s not for Innocent’s eyes only. I know she wants to circulate it for feedback to the other sergeants, and then it’ll go to senior officers for discussion, and maybe even beyond the nick. I’ve only been in this nick a little over two years — I know I have useful contributions to make, but what if they all assume I’m an arrogant tosspot know-it-all?”

Lewis’s lips twitch. “Well, you are a know-it-all, but you have the virtue of actually knowing it all most of the time. Look,” he adds, pressing a hand lightly to James’s shoulder, “why don’t you let me take a look? You know, just so I can point out anything that does look tosspot-like?”

_No_. Just the thought of Lewis seeing what he’s written is terrifying. Until James reminds himself that Lewis will see it anyway when Innocent circulates it. And if he has written anything stupid, far better that Lewis see it now, when there’s still a chance to make changes, than later when everyone else is reading it too and it turns into a total disaster.

He releases a long, slow breath. “Thank you. I’ll email it to you.”

* * *

“Come on in, man.” Lewis stands back to admit James to his flat. His boss suggested that they go through James’s report outside the office, over a takeaway. James has brought the takeaway and Lewis is, apparently, providing the beer, judging by the bottles of Bridge set out on the small dining table.

Lewis insists on saving the critique until after they’ve eaten, which has James on tenterhooks the whole time, and he ends up mostly picking at his food. Lewis, his plate empty after a hearty meal, clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “Heat you up some more later,” he says as he removes James’s plate. 

“You’re a daft sod,” Lewis adds as he reaches for a folder and opens it on the table. “You should know I wouldn’t rip your work to shreds. Wouldn’t tell you it’s all perfect either, if it’s not. An’ at the end of the day, it’s your report. Don’t have to listen to anything I say if you don’t want to.”

James leans forward, trying to read Lewis’s chickenscratch on the pages. “If I didn’t value your opinion, I wouldn’t have taken you up on your offer, sir.”

Lewis raises an eyebrow with an amused smile. “And yet you’re still so nervous about what I’m gonna say you’re chewing your thumb.”

He is. Christ. He’s got to lose these giveaways in his body-language. Lewis can read him far too easily, even after only around six months of being the man’s bagman.

James takes a deep breath. “I sit at the feet of the expert. Please, let me hear it.”

Lewis pats his back. “Less of the expert, canny lad. First of all, this is good. There’s a lot of ideas in here Innocent will like — an’ that your peers’ll like. I wouldn’t have minded some of this meself when I was a sergeant. Don’t think anyone’s gonna be telling you you’re talking through your arse.”

James snorts. “Thanks.” He looks down as Lewis points to specific recommendations he approves of. “I appreciate that, sir. These all made sense to me, but — well, I am conscious of not having the benefit of the length of experience other officers have.”

“Not all about _length_ of experience, is it?” Lewis nods approvingly at him. “Now, one of the issues Innocent’s gonna have is cost — and a couple of these ideas might cost more than she’d be prepared to pay without some real evidence of benefit. She might not have asked you to look at budget implications, but it’s definitely gonna get you more brownie points if you do mention money.”

“I did think of that.” From pure self-defence, James feels provoked into saying so. “I decided not to because I wanted the recommendations to be considered on their merits and not purely from a cost perspective.”

Lewis nods again. “Makes sense. So why don’t you include a short appendix on cost implications versus benefits?”

That makes sense, and James scribbles a note for himself. “I can do that. Anything else?”

Lewis sits back, and now he’s smirking. “Just one other thing.”

“Yes?”

“You did say you don’t want to rub it in that you’re a cleverclogs Cambridge graduate, yeah?”

“I didn’t put it _quite_ like that... but yes.”

“More sentences,” Lewis says, and James frowns at him. “You’re not writing a bloody preamble to a piece of legislation, with all the heretofores and thereafters and fifty sodding semi-colons per page, are you? Just imagine you’re writing it for uneducated sods like me to read, an’ you’ll do a lot better.”

“Point taken. Fewer semi-colons.” Not that James buys the _uneducated_ for one second. His boss might never have gone beyond the couple of A-levels he took without distinguishing himself, but Robbie Lewis is far from uneducated. Anyone who can pick up a Greek primer and not only read it but also remember and apply the references to a case is neither thick nor lacking academic knowledge. And besides, formal education or not, Robbie Lewis is one of the most intelligent men he’s met.

“Good. Long as you know how to write without it soundin’ like it’s meant to be read aloud in the Sheldonian.” Lewis stands and goes to put the kettle on.

“Don’t worry, sir. I’ll sprinkle a few of your Northern contractions throughout. And I should confess that I’ve been taking lessons in Geordie dialect, just so you’ll feel more at home in the poliss.”

Lewis turns slowly and favours James with a long-suffering glare. “Just hold yer whisht there, ye bloody wazzock, or I’ll twock yer snout.”

James’s jaw drops. “Whatever you say, sir.”

“Not got to the advanced lessons yet? Never mind.” Lewis comes over and pats his shoulder. “It’ll only take you another ten years of workin’ wi’ me.”

Lewis, of course, thinks James would see that as a dire prospect, but from James’s perspective there’s nothing he’d like better. Snout-twocking regardless.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Approximate translation of Lewis's Geordie dialect:  
> "Shut up there, you bloody idiot, or I'll steal your cigarettes."


End file.
